


The Moon Eternal

by Saelmeril



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-10-26 04:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20736206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saelmeril/pseuds/Saelmeril
Summary: The diary of the brother of Tar-Telperiën, Prince Isilmo of Númenor. In its pages he describes the changing world around him and fights an excruciating internal battle, the outcome of which will decide the future of humankind.





	1. 1357 S.A. Of the Curse

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Луна Незаходящая](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/630319) by hinewai. 

> Yet another liberal translation of my own work.

Telperiën ordered me to be in her quarters when the clocks beat eighteen*. Rather untimely. It was such a long day! Reading, training, training again, then the dinner party... I couldn't wait to leave. I anticipated retreating to my balcony, lighting a candle, writing this and then finishing _The Road to Isul_. Now I'll have to run another errand, or endure a lecture on being a Prince from the line of Elros.

The One knows how much I love talking to Telperiën and how much I trust her, but why so late, and so urgent? If she wanted to gossip, she would've knocked on my door without prior notice. I feel that she has something serious on her mind but can't imagine what could it be. Perhaps I've done something wrong unintentionally — or she needs my cooperation to conceal an affair. Probably the latter. What other pressing matter would she discuss in the dead of night without our parents?

I'm glad that my sister is the Heiress. I couldn’t have borne this responsibility; not with this condition of ours. Telperiën handles it better. She doesn’t even regard it as an affliction. She relishes it. 

_Cursed_ is such a powerful word! Yet it is the softest of those I get to overhear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Númenóreans counted hours from dawn, so this corresponds to midnight. Subtract six hours from Númenórean times to convert them into Earth ones. I assume that the sun rose at six in the morning and that Númenóreans counted time from a fixed point at least for part of the year. Having an ever-changing point of reference must be horrendously inconvenient, and I can't imagine such an advanced civilisation not optimising their measurement of time.


	2. 1357 S.A. Of Telperiën and a Difficult Choice

When I came in, Telpë was standing by the window, barefoot with a glass of undiluted red wine in her hand. She had not yet undone her high braid but had already changed into a silk robe, and her olive skin was sleek and fragrant with ointments. Judging by this, I was preceded by a mistress.

‘Here you are,’ she smiled. Everything about her betrayed that she'd enjoyed a sensual night. ‘I was worried that you forgot and fell asleep.’ 

Even if I did, this would’ve hardly stopped her.

I diluted myself some wine and drank slowly in order to prolong the calm before the storm, while my sister nibbled at a date. As if the sweetness of Izremith’s embrace (or was it Nimmêl today?) wasn’t enough for her.

I hate to feel jealous of Telperiën, but I can’t help it. Despite the mores, despite the watchful eyes and swift tongues, she manages to find a sweetheart anywhere. How does she even distinguish the girls ready to reciprocate her passion? A mistake can entrain irreparable consequences. But Telperiën wouldn’t be Telperiën if she couldn’t wriggle her way out of any predicament.

The flame of her spirit burns so brightly that both youths and maids fall to her feet, regardless of whom they’d been attracted to earlier. 

Were I normal, all it would take for me to gain carnal knowledge of my own would be finding an amenable shepherd girl. I could do it tomorrow if I wanted to — and if I wasn't afraid. Maybe it’s easier for girls because they are naturally gentler and more sincere with each other.

Maybe I should disguise as a shepherd, like my great-grandmother?

But back to Telpë.

‘Nothing is fairer than these summer nights,’ she said, abruptly placing her glass on the table. ‘But the dynasty of Elros cannot end because of our preferences. One of us will have to marry and produce an heir.’

She looked me into the eyes squarely.

Telperiën is used to giving orders; besides, she's emulating our grandfather and father. It's natural that her voice has gained imperative notes over years, and yet it's hard not to take it personally — especially when she says something like this:

_I understand how unpleasant you must find this prospect if you’re no more interested in women than I am in men. But you can close your eyes, count to thirty and forget about it forever, whilst I will have to carry the child for nine months, vomit, abstain from wine… My temper will become unstable and my breasts saggy. Not to mention that the child will distract me from my duties. I can be either a good queen or a good mother… And what if a war breaks out?_

She has a point; it is certainly harder to mother a child than to father one. It doesn’t make my lot any easier though.

I opened the window, letting the coolness and freshness of the starlit night into the stuffy chamber.

Later we spoke again of the unsettling tidings borne by the East wind. All of us are worried. What we used to consider a steppe with a handful of semi-savage tribes turned out to be a populous kingdom growing stronger with every day. Its people have banned every last outsider from their land and refuse to trade with their neighbours lest they acknowledge their inscrutable God-Emperor. Rumour has it, he’s immortal, but this could be a myth or a misunderstanding. 

What could he even be in this case?

A quendë? A vagrant Avari perhaps? After all, we know little about the fate of those who chose to never leave Cuiviënen.

This seems unlikely. Elves come across as fair, but not divine. Some of them crave power, but demanding worship is not in their nature, unless darkness possesses their hearts.

If this immortal sovereign is neither a fabrication nor an Elf, then he must be an Ainu. Maybe the Valar sent him to aid and guide less civilised peoples — if this is the case, our concerns are vain. Indeed, he doesn’t seem oppressive from descriptions. His subjects adore him. From what we heard, he had united their rivalling tribes, taught them crafts and bestowed upon them a common language.

Whatever the truth, one cannot deny that a power is rising in the East, and that we must determine whether it poses a threat.

We emptied another glass of wine each and switched to more immediate issues. Telperiën told me about the latest letters of Gil-galad to our grandfather. The King of the Noldor is troubled by the influence a certain Annatar has gained among the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. Here’s another powerful individual of which we know desperately little.

Telperiën cannot carry both all of these issues on her shoulders and a healthy child in her womb. This would be too much even for her.

I hold no doubts about her competence. Telpë is a born queen: a gifted speaker, the people’s favourite, the pride of our family. Grandfather can leave the sceptre in peace knowing that for the next two generations it shall rest in safe hands. Councilors who say I should claim the throne on the sole basis of my gender are fools. What kind of king would I make? Crowds exhaust me, I shiver whenever I have to pronounce a speech, and I cannot subdue people neither by willpower, nor reason, nor charm. 

My talents are different to Telperiën's. Possibly, I’d be a better parent. Parenthood would burden me less, for sure—

But it takes two to produce an heir. I can endure anything for the Isle, but condemning an innocent woman to a lifelong torment! The poor lass will have to live with a man she doesn’t love, or love a man whose heart is empty. Either way, I will hate myself for being the cause of her misery.

This will once more convince everyone that I’m a monster, an abomination, a product of Morgoth’s corruption.

But I won’t be able to love a woman, even if she is wiser than Andreth and fairer than Lúthien.


	3. 1394 S.A. Of Tar-Súrion's Coronation

Father was crowned under his birth name.

It sounds weird when they call him _ Tar- _ Súrion, and even I occasionally forget to address him as ‘atar _ aranya’ _ . Fortunately, _ atto _ doesn’t take offence. He didn't changed at all. Even though he had months to prepare, he admits that he still cannot grasp his new role.

Grandfather withers with every day. Not even withers — _burns_.

They say this has happened to every King after abdication, save Vardamir, but he doesn’t count: his ‘reign’ was just a line on the paper. 

Fear and dismay grip my heart. I cannot help thinking that one day this fate shall befall _atto_ and Telperiën. 

I’ve never witnessed an occasion as grand as father’s coronation. There were many overseas guests, including Elves from all over Arda. Many people gathered on the streets of ports to have a glimpse of the Firstborn. This reminded me that I shouldn't take their presence for granted.

Three rulers will ascend the throne in my lifetime, provided that I outlive my sister. But some of our Elven guests have been present at the coronations of every single Númenórean King and Queen. Some older than the Isle itself! It's unsettling to think about this. But strangely, I’ve never noticed arrogance in their looks. They recognise that our fate is not inferior in the eyes of the One; in fact, some of them sincerely believe that it may be superior. There has to be a reason for mortal blood always overriding the immortal in mixed progeny.

For the same reason we don't envy them. I cannot understand those who do: to me, Elves seem too different, too distant. Perhaps for this very reason history remembers only three cases of love between our races, one of which didn't even result in marriage. It's the same reason that prevents meadow flowers from crossing with oak trees.

Just as some humans envy the eternal youth of the Firstborn, certain Elves crave our Gift — especially those who've witnessed the horrors of the First Age.

(They’ve _ seen _the events we praise or lament in poems and songs!)

Immortals admire Telperiën most of all. A soul of fire! She jokes that wine won’t do her well, and adds that she would choose a short but intense life over an eternity of cold and solitude. 

‘But little brother is different,’ she says, hugging me with one hand as in childhood. ‘He’s a reserved man, and his way in Arda shall be long. I sense it.’ 

The Elves of Aman and Eressëa differ from the others conspicuously. Their eyes are brighter and faces more serene, not blighted by the concerns of those who dwell in Middle-Earth. But no one brings artworks of such finesse as the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. Never will Númenóreans attain such mastery! The wisdom of millennia and everyday labour bring their fruits.

They say that Celebrimbor is second in mastery only to his legendary grandfather.

The Aulendil spirit helping their people was mentioned only briefly, but he is clearly a controversial figure. 

What a shame that skilful Maiar never visit Númenor. Is it because they don’t see us as worthy pupils? Or our turn is yet to come? 

***

Yesterday Telperiën was proclaimed Heiress. She decided to retain her birth name too. Frankly, I don’t see why would she change it; no epithets stuck to her, and Tar-Telperiën sounds beautiful and regal as it is. Unlike Tar-Isilmo. Our parents have understood who was destined to rule from the very beginning.


	4. 1411 S.A. Of Andúnië, the Moon and a Country Far East

The God-Emperor of the East is a spirit of the Holy Ones—it is now beyond doubt. I admire the elegance with which we confirmed this.

As it often happens, many wise and talented people gathered in the house of Lord Cemendil an-Andúnië, this time to listen to his eldest son, Lindamo. He spoke about his eight-year voyage along the East coast of Endórë. Among the many discoveries made by his crew were a few lines from the language of the People of the Sun. Apparently that’s what the subjects of the God-Emperor call themselves, _ the Eternal Sun _ being his own title. Lindamo was lucky to hear them. He also discovered that the locals are especially hostile to foreigners who come by sea; they're wary of the ocean and all that dwells in it. The shoreline visited by our sailors was a barren and dismal sight.

Everyone found the Eastern common language hideous. But how astonished they were when, upon hearing it, several Eldar from Aman commented on its striking likeness to Valarin!

Scholars of both of our races concurred that this resemblance could not be coincidental. This means that the enigmatic ruler of the East had derived the language he bestowed upon his subjects from his native tongue. 

From these snippets of information we can tell that he is a power-lusting, self-absorbed, versatile Ainu. And he's not a marine spirit. Telperiën is concerned that he may be a surviving servant of Morgoth, if not the Enemy himself. The latter seems far-fetched, but the former is probable, and it troubles me too.

Whatever he is, such a remarkable creature will not linger in the shadows. Sooner or later we will have to talk to him. 

So far the People of the Sun have only been defending their borders, yet at some point every great nation enters a phase of expansion. It’s merely a question of gaining military might. Depending on his ambitions, the Emperor can contain or enhance this impulse. I hope that his many virtues include the love for peace—though, in all sincerity, I doubt it.

***

Andúnië is my favourite city not just because it's the fairest haven of Númenor. People there are more spiritual than in Armenelos, and less corrupt. It’s as if it has absorbed more of the light of Aman than the rest of the Isle; this is especially noticeable at the hour of the evening dawn. And the library of Lord Cemendil is indeed the greatest treasure of our land. 

I need to assert my will. Without a brief respite I won’t be able to fulfil my duties well. True, I am of little use outside Armenelos, but I will be even less useful if I lose my wit. 

My spirit is drained. It longs for the shade of maritime pines, where nothing disturbs the silence save the hardly audible song of kirinki. And I miss Lindamo. I miss walking with him by the cliffs and along forest trails while listening to his stories about islands and continents I’ll never see. Nothing nourishes my soul as much as a long conversation with him. Letters cannot replace it.

Before father’s accession I’d been a different man. I need to regain what I lost. I dream of the light of Andúnië. 

***

The Valar kindled the Moon as a gift to the dark world. Why does its full face staring into my window give me shivers?

Every child believes in the flower-on-the-boat. Perhaps fear crept into me when I first fixed my telescope against the Moon and saw canyons and mountain ranges instead of sails and ropes. My great-great-great grandfather Tar-Meneldur had noticed them too. He even mapped the lunar terrain. However, he didn’t name its parts, possibly because he considered it not worth his time. I decided to complete his work. Scholars may reject my suggestions, but I will use this opportunity to make tributes to my loved ones. Telpë and father can have a plain each, Lindamo a mountain.

Eldar compare me to Tar-Meneldur. They say I've inherited his temper and his fascination with the sky. It's flattering. I must live up to my ancestor’s image and conduct my life in a way that would inspire a future stargazer to commemorate me in his discoveries. 

The Moon made me wistful. I shall close the curtains and go to sleep, so that tomorrow I can think straight. Despite my name, I am a Prince of Númenórë, not Isil.


End file.
